


Mistakes Were Made

by teethandclawsxx



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Gender-neutral Reader, Gore, Guro, I don't know if there's anything else i should add?, I don't know what I'm doing, Sexual Themes, Torture, Vomit Mention, horror porn, i think i'm good, this is my first time using this site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7936642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teethandclawsxx/pseuds/teethandclawsxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strade made a mistake, but you made a bigger one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistakes Were Made

**Author's Note:**

> i am a Criminal, a Bad Man, but I mean, who else is gonna do this, a person who is Pure??? nope, of course not, so, it must be me. Also this was supposed to be 2-3k words, and yet?? here it is??? at 6k???? so whatever enjoy this mess that took two weeks too long ya nasties
> 
> don't read if you don't like the stuff in the source material obviously, but just in case you aren't familiar : we got gore, torture, and sexual themes here so watch out!

          You wake up and roll over, groaning angrily at yourself for being awake when you’re still _this_ goddamn tired.

          Except for the part where you _don’t_ ; your head turns, but your torso just sort of jerks forward, then falls back. Your eyes snap open as you pull your wrists forward to test the idea that’s making bile start to rise up in your throat in panic.

          Yes. Okay. You’re tied to a pole of some sort, as pressing your back against it tells you. It’s dark, wherever you are, but you can see, a bit. The place looks like a workshop of some sort. You can see a staircase, so, a basement?

          _God_.

          Your head doesn’t hurt, but you can’t remember what happened last night. Or…well, actually you’re not sure how long you’ve been out, so you’re not sure how much time you’ve lost.

          You close your eyes and focus on remembering. Your thoughts start swimming around, you can only remember a few small things – a man, his warm smile, a drink, he laughed, you laughed, you talked, you, you , you – aren’t – everything’s – spinning, and it’s just him and you and the words coming out of his mouth sound like they’re coming from behind a wall – you can hear his accent, his voice, but not the words he’s saying. Suddenly he’s laughing and you’re drowning and it’s dark, it’s so dark –

          Breathe. Focus. Breathe slowly. Your head is still swimming, and even though it doesn’t _hurt_ , your thoughts fall out of place like sand through fingers. You’re panicking. _You’re fine._ It doesn’t matter how you got here. _You don’t know what happened._

          Breathe, again, again…. Smaller thoughts…try not to focus on any one detail for too long.

          Went to a bar. Can’t remember where it was. Not to drink. Wanted to find someone. A man comes to you, instead. You give him your name. He gives you his. Can’t – remember, what it is. He offers you a drink. You turn him down. You talk. He was interes _ting_ but you weren’t interes _ted_. In him. No one better. You talk. Can’t remember how long. It got dark. You want to leave. He – you – _you_ went to the bathroom.

          You breathe. Your mind feels considerably more calm. You remember you went to the bathroom, but just as you were about to walk out he opened the door. You noticed him and went to attack, but you froze up. That was your first mistake.

          No, your first mistake was not realizing what kind of person he is. But he was so easy to talk to. It’s actually a little frightening, thinking back. He somehow reminds you of yourself. Soft and…pliant. Mostly just listening, but with a genuine interest. Not obtrusive. The kind of person who blends in well. That should have given it away, but it didn’t. You feel angry with yourself.

          So it was your _second_ mistake, freezing up like that. If you’d have jut tackled him then you could have caught him off guard. Ran. _Something_ other than go with him willingly. But that was what you did. You went with him to his car. You’re not sure when you passed out, or when you got tied up. He must have drugged you at some point, or something. You’re too light a sleeper to have just _slept_ through all the manhandling lugging one down a staircase and tying them to a pole requires.

          …

          You had hoped to figure something out in remembering what happened, but you’re pretty much just as clueless as you were when you woke up. It was all too simple, too straight-forward. He didn’t say or do _anything_ out of place to give himself away. You have no clue where you are, no idea what he wants. Maybe he’d just fuck you and be done with it. Drug you up and let you go. You’re hopeful, but you don’t think it’s likely.

          You mull over your options, tugging lightly on the rope as you think. Yeah, you aren’t getting out of here any time soon. The rope’s way too tight.

          Before you can think about it any further, though, you hear the loud reverberating pounding of heavy boots on a hollow staircase.

          Lo and behold, the bastard himself, come to grace you with his presence. You choke down a sneer; best not to give him a _reason_ to be cruel. He probably already _wants_ to.

          He looks…downright joyful. Not like, ‘oohh, look, I have a new toy,’ joyful, like you’d expect, but more of an, ‘I’m happy to be alive today!’ joyful. Definitely not faking in the bar. Might actually be a genuinely good guy, albeit with a few quirks.

          He asks you how you’re feeling, and you don’t know how to respond. You spend your time overthinking it, of course, and the sudden pressure on your stomach gives you a pretty good idea of your answer, that combined with the dark look that passes over him for the briefest of moments.

          You’re a quick learner. Especially when it comes to people.

          He presses his boot deeper into you, adding to the painful pressure and squeezing the air out of you. You nearly choke and vomit, but you manage to hold it back.

          “Why so quiet _now_? We were having such a good talk before….”

          Yeah, ok. That gives you all the confidence you need to believe you’ve (at least a little? You hope?) figured him out. What, exactly, he wants to hear, though, you aren’t sure.

          You almost laugh, but don’t, and just go for mumbling, “not great,” while avoiding eye contact. Looking as pointedly away from him as you dare (you don’t want any surprises), you continue, hesitantly. “Listen…I don’t…know if this is some kind of… _revenge_ thing or something,” (you’re assuming it’s random, but you’re hoping for better luck) “but, you’ve probably got the wrong person. I don’t exactly have any enemies.” And _that_ isn’t _exactly_ a lie.

          He laughs, and his laugh is as loud as his personality. Jovial, even. Definitely not your stereotypical ‘homicidal manic’ laughter. He continues. “No.” _Of course not_. “I know what I’m doing.” And at this you freeze up for a moment. Could he – “Oh! I forgot!” And the casual smile slips back onto his face, erasing your horror, at least, for now. “Before we get started, you want something to eat? Drink?”

          It is at that _exact_ moment that you come to the conclusion that you won’t be leaving in one piece.

          At the mention of food, though, your stomach turns over and you feel like you might actually get sick. You don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve eaten. At _least_ since before the bar, but, again, you don’t know how long you’ve been out either, sooo.

          You narrow your eyes and try to size him up. Somehow you doubt he wants you dead. If you’re ‘starting’ anything, he probably won’t want it to be finished that quickly. If you eat, you’ll last longer, of course, and you’re sure he knows that, too.

          You nod, and, remembering that you _know now_ that he wants to _hear you_ , you add, “I could…eat….”

          His smile widens as he responds, “Sure!” and he walks away for a moment, only to come back with some kind of food bar.

          He unwraps it and holds it out in front of you. You groan internally, _he’s going to feed me_. And then, _Oh, man, I hope he doesn’t_ get off _on feeding me…._

          You lean in, cautiously, slowly, and look up at him before starting to eat. Once you start, though, you realize exactly how hungry you are, and you finish quickly.

          “Not bad, hm?”

          You nod, and are just about to keep up with the speaking thing when he pulls out a pretty decently-sized hunting knife. You’ve seen – _owned_ – bigger, but that doesn’t make it any less intimidating. If anything, it makes it more so. You suck in a breath to speak with, but you freeze up, and only get as far as stuttering out a simple, “What?”

          He smiles at you, cheerful as ever, and approaches slowly. “You’re clothing’s in the way.” He says it so casually that you forget modestly is a thing for most people, until, of course, the blade of the knife slides sideways under your sleeve and then turns, tearing the seam.

          Again, you only manage to stutter. “Woa-wait, wait. What-” You want to ask him why he needs your clothes off, but he ignores the mangled mess that is your speech and continues cutting your clothes away, ‘accidentally’ giving you a few shallow nicks. He leaves you in your underwear…so you aren’t quite sure just what to think. Well, okay, you are, but you want to get to pretend you’re not.

          Now finished, he steps back to get a better view of his work. He smiles, but soon notices the knife that has fallen out of your own clothes. You grind your teeth. You were hoping he wouldn’t notice.

          But notice he has, and he bends down to pick it up. He flicks it open, and you want to laugh. It’s _pitiful_ in comparison to his. Kind of makes you feel…inferior? In a weird sort of way that you don’t even want to _start_ thinking about right now.

          He eyes you, eyebrows raised, clearly demanding an answer.

          You clear your throat, not knowing what to say.

          “Uh-uh-un-I-I keep-It’s so that-” it’s embarrassing to say that you carry it for self-defense, considering. But also considering the other things you can think of to say- “I usually have that to keep myself… _out_ …of these kinds of situations….” You finish, staring him in the eye. His smile has only grown wider.

          “Ah, well. Can’t anticipate everything, can you, buddy?” He looks…sympathetic enough you’d buy it. _If_ you didn’t know what was going on, that is.

          He laughs, but only briefly this time.

          As soon as he stops laughing, you start speaking. You even your voice before starting, this time. You keep your eyes locked with his. …You make a mental note to yourself that he is completely unfazed by direct eye contact, unlike yourself.

          “What…is the point of all this? Why do it?” _Maybe_ you can talk him down, you’re thinking. Given what you’ve seen of him so far, you doubt it, but….

          He gets down on his knees without answering, too close, _too close_. Close enough to smell him. _Dirty_. Close enough to not be able to look away. Too _close_!

          Keeping his eyes on your face, he rubs his fingers over your thigh. _Hard. Calloused_. You aren’t sure you want to know why he does this, but you’re already shaking. You can feel all other thoughts slipping away as you focus just on him.

          And that knife. Your attention keeps tearing between the two, not totally sure which is the bigger threat.

          He smiles comfortably, his hand still moving. “I have a lot of reasons. I want to. I can.” His eyes narrow and his voice drops. He takes his time getting out the next part. “We’re going to have a very intimate experience.” You’re unsure what to make of it. Of _him_. You’re still shaking though, -

          “Have you ever screamed for anyone before?”

          You open your mouth, but before you can get anything out you feel the cold steel sting your hot skin. You had been paying attention to his face at that point, so that the blade is on you now is a bit of a surprise. You freeze, not wanting to push your leg _into_ the blade.

          He doesn’t move immediately once it’s touching you, at first he just rests it there.

          But then he does.

          You have to bite back a scream at the cut. Cuts feel like cuts; mostly don’t hurt after they’re done (unless the blade is dull, but this one definitely is _not_ ), but god, do they burn while they’re happening. You feel your eyes water up as he drags the knife slowly through your skin, not even terribly deep.

          You push a ragged breath out from your chest, trying painfully to hold in the majority of your reactions. Your eyes flick from the blade, now back to his face. His breathing is louder. You don’t want to think about it. But as his eyes go back down to your legs, yours go back to the knife.

          You tense, momentarily, then relax just as he starts cutting again. Don’t want to be tense when he pierces the skin. Hard – to do. Less painful, though. This time, you can’t hold back as much and your tears spill over. You aren’t afraid. But, it does hurt.

          Up to his face. Regret. Back down to the knife. He’d looked downright _hungry_. He cuts again, then nothing.

          Up to his face. The pain feels distant without his hands on the cuts and without the knife in your skin. But you also recognize that the pain feels distant because you’re growing dizzy, and actually everything feels just a little too far away.

          He breathes deeply and runs his fingers through his greasy hair as you look back up.

          He exhales. He says something, you don’t quite catch it, but you hear “too excited” and you don’t need to hear more.

          You’re still shaking, you know through your haze, but the knife isn’t in your leg now, so you’re breathing more steadily, trying to calm down.

          Back to the knife.

          You watch him wipe it off on his pants and you swallow.

          Nothing happens for several long moments. And then, predictably, something does.

          His expression switches. His face is still red, and he has a look on his face that you either can’t place or don’t care to. Either way, you know it doesn’t look like actual regret, more like a half-assed mocking of regret. You’re going to change that, you resolve. …Once your head is clear, anyway. For now you’re having trouble just focusing on looking at his face as you turn your head back up.

          He kneels down and leans in. His face is back to that friendly, reassuringly confident smile that seems to be his default expression. His hand hovers over the cuts on your leg, but he doesn’t touch them, doesn’t look down.

          “Now this is no good, _schatzchen_. Want some help with those?” Given the grin on his face, you think he isn’t going to give you a choice, he’s going to ‘help’ you either way.

          Your first thought is to say yes without hesitation, even to say ‘thank you,’ but something nags at you through your blurry consciousness. What is it?

          Oh, you think. Yeah. Maybe you shouldn’t _trust_ him.

          But thinking about it you know better. You don’t have to trust him. He’s fairly easy to read, now that you know who he is behind the smile. Or rather, now that you know the smile is genuine. He _wants_ to help. For his own sake. You won’t last terribly long bleeding openly.

          And what good is a broken toy?

          You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod, making sure not to break eye contact with his face.

          “Great!” He smiles, and starts shuffling through a cupboard on the other side of the room. He comes back with a small first aid kit.

          He smiles and hums as he pulls out the threat and needle. You shiver. You decide to watch the needle rather than his face.

          “This is probably going to hurt.”

          And before you finish processing what he’s said, the needle’s already in. You grunt, but it doesn’t hurt _terribly_ much. Probably not as much as the cuts themselves, at least, but stitching them together puts pressure on them, too, so it hurts worse than just a needle would. After the first few seconds, just making small, pained noises isn’t enough, and you screw your eyes shut and grind your teeth.

          Luckily for you (or not) His hands don’t shake and he’s clearly quite confident in his skill. He’s _absolutely_ done this before, but at this point you aren’t surprised. Can’t be bothered to be, anyway.

          Once done, he pulls on the sutures, and you sigh in relief. He closed them well. You’ve had more than your fair share of stitches, so you can tell. He’s practically hospital quality.

          The sound of his voice alerts you to the fact that he isn’t done with you just yet, though. He holds up a bottle and cloth. You know exactly what’s coming next as he splashes alcohol on the cuts.

          You hear his voice again, but it warbles in and out, as with the rest of your awareness. You again hear the sound of heavy boots on the staircase, although this time it sounds louder.

\---

          You wake up. You hadn’t realized you had fallen asleep, but then again you weren’t exactly very _awake_ when he had left. At first, your mind is so foggy you can’t feel anything, but, all at once, the feeling comes back as your mind clears out. The first thing you can feel is the throbbing from your wounds. They feel like they’re healing, at least….

          The next thing you notice is that something feels a bit off. You pull your arms forward to stretch your shoulders a bit while thinking, but in doing so your wrists slide in the ropes and you realize what it is that’s off. The ropes are looser than when you feel asleep. Or, at least, than the last time you woke up? They could have loosened while he was cutting you up before, you didn’t exactly _try_ to get out of them at any point…and all the squirming could have easily loosened them.

          You pull a little harder and get your wrists the rest of the way out of the binds, stand up, and stretch, contemplating your options.

          He already took your own knife…but he has more, surely. The real question is, is it a good idea to try to get one? Steal one of his knives and, what, stab him in his sleep? You don’t know where he sleeps. You don’t know where you are, let alone how to navigate the building you’re in.

          When he comes back down?

          No. He’ll most likely be armed in _either_ of those scenarios. You somehow don’t think you’d believe that he sleeps unarmed.

          And anyway, he’s bigger than you. You have no doubt that if you catch him off guard you can get him – stab him at _least_ a little – but he would easily overpower and stop you if he reacted quickly. And he may even fight back _after_ you’d stabbed him.

          You grind your teeth. That whole plan reeks. You do decide, however, that you want to snoop a little. You are also _quite_ hungry. Well, you’re also pretty nauseous, but…you figure you’ll take your chances. At least _look_ at what he’s got in that fridge. For curiosity’s sake, if no other.

          It isn’t easy to walk, especially since you don’t want to burst the stitches or anything, but you make your way over to the fridge successfully and open it.

          A light flickers on inside it and you gasp, quickly moving to slam it shut out of sheer surprise, but you stop short of actually closing it. You’re downstairs, you remind yourself, he’s not going to notice the light coming on from wherever he is up there, even if he’s directly above you.

          You pull it open again, slower this time. Once it’s open…you grind your teeth in lieu of making a noise.

          Organs. Various meats. In Tupperware containers. You look at them from various angles, curiosity taking over, trying to get a good enough look to figure out what they are. You also know, however, that organ meat doesn’t last long. Hell, meat in general doesn’t last long. Based on how cold it is, and the lack of ice buildup, you’re pretty sure the thing is a fridge, unlike what you had thought upon initially seeing it. If it was a freezer, it’d be a different story…. But none of these look old or rotten. A week old, at _most_.

          Either he has a freezer somewhere filled with organs that he takes stuff out of occasionally, or he does this often. Or he hunts. …Er, animals. You can’t tell through the cloudy plastic if they’re necessarily _human_.

          Once your fascination with the…mystery organs subsides a bit, you look around at the rest of the fridge’s contents. Aside from the organs, there’s a few cans of beer and a sandwich bag with what _looks_ like cooked steak in it. But as with the organs, of course, who _knows_ what it’s from.

          You contemplate your choices. What you’d _really_ like to do is just eat the steak, but…. There’s only one. You don’t want to risk it. You let out a sigh, and you hear a noise upstairs.

          You run for the pole as well as you can without popping your stitches, and practically dive for the ground. You manage to get your wrists back into the ropes, although you have no way to tighten them back up.

          You sit there, anxiously awaiting any further noises. After a while of not hearing anything, you slip into a fitful sleep.

\---

          The first thing you’re aware of, is, again, pain. Your wounds feel just a little less sore, but, you realize, there’s one spot that’s hurting more than you remember.

          Opening your eyes to be greeting by that _smile_ , you quickly figure out you’d been kicked in the leg.

          As your eyes focus on his face you notice his smile get wider and for a second that feels like forever you’re afraid he’s noticed the swelling around the stitches from all the stress you put on them last night. Instead, all he says is, “Hallo~! Sleep well?”

          You feel your blood run cold, afraid of the suggestion. You also feel a little weaker than you expected to at this point. The hunger, probably. Although…everything feels a little _too_ out of focus for it to just be that.

          He bends down and waves another bar of food in front of you. You entertain it for a moment, thinking about what you found in the fridge last night. Some of that would have made a _much_ better meal, and you start to salivate, but…. You decide you’ll take the bar. It’ll be enough, if only for now. You may have to resign to eating the cold meat if your situation doesn’t change soon.

          So, you nod, add on a spoken, “Yes,” and add a hasty, “I would,” to the end. You don’t want to say too little, don’t want to say too much.

          His smile widens and he leans further forward, close enough that he’s now touching you. You jolt – part of you wants to try to press back into the pole away from him, part wants to _not_ piss him off.

          But – he just unties your wrists. Eyes wide, you watch him closely. He hands you the energy bar. You slowly unwrap it, refusing to so much as blink in favor of watching him. His hand moves slightly, and you see the glint of the knife hooked to his belt. You almost want to sigh in relief. He knows he has the advantage, so you don’t think this is a trap of some kind.

          You finish eating as quickly as you dare. Wanting to savor being able to move your arms freely. You know it won’t come often.

          You freeze in shock as he reaches out, but relax significantly when all he does is ruffle your hair and take the wrapper. You’re uncertain how you feel about him ruffling your hair, but it doesn’t matter. At least not as much as other things.

          “Good!” He just tosses the wrapper onto the ground. “You know…. I feel like we’re really getting to know each other. I know it hasn’t been long. But this sort of… _experience_ …it speeds things up.” You know _exactly_ what he’s talking about, and you aren’t sure how you feel about _that,_ either. He leans in closer though, and continues. “It’s the adrenaline. You’re excited.” His expression changes and his voice drops in pitch. “I’m excited,” he says, leaning even closer.

          This time you do shrink back, but he only continues speaking. “We’re sharing something very… _personal_.” He looks at you hungrily as he says this, and you look away. You look back, as, immediately after, he erupts into laughter, like he just heard the best joke ever. “Scared, _freundchen?_ ” He rests his hand on your shoulder and smiles. “Aww, don’t be. Would it help if I say I won’t hurt you?” All at once his hand moves and you have a terrible feeling in your gut, and the other hand comes up to your shoulder and you didn’t mean to but you _scream_ , because cuts and dislocated shoulders are two _entirely_ different beasts.

          Before you can react his hands are already on your other shoulder and parts of you are _aching_ to scream, “No, please don’t!” but you don’t.

          “Don’t want you putting up a fight and hurting yourself more,” he breathes. Your mouth just hangs open in shock and you watch silently as he pops the other one out of place. This time you’re expecting it, you’re ready, but you still can’t hold back a scream. Your face is already wet with tears, but at least the pain after they’re dislocated isn’t as bad as the pain during, just as with most things.

          They hang limp at your sides as he stares at you for a few moments, and then he grabs them, one at a time, and ties them back to the poles. You don’t try to resist.

          Then, unceremoniously, he takes your right shoulder between his hands and pops it back into place. More tears fall from your eyes, and you grit your teeth and groan, but you manage to hold back a scream. He pops the left one back into place as well, and you feel relief wash over you for a few brief moments.

          You’re covered in sweat in addition to the tears, at this point, and you feel hot and lightheaded from the pain. For a whole two seconds, you get to enjoy your relief anyway, but then you realize he’s no longer in front of you and that relief melts away. He’s on the other side of the room. Your vision is blurry through the pain you’re in – you notice your legs are hurting more than they were, too, you probably tensed your legs while he dislocated your shoulders – but you can hear a metallic rattling and your heart settles firmly into your stomach.

          You can see the light glinting off of a couple objects in particular as he examines them, clearly having a hard time deciding which one he wants to use. He finally holds one up, and turns back to you, smiling.

          But he doesn’t walk exactly toward you though. He goes for a corner of the room behind you. You can’t see what he’s doing, but you tense up when you hear gas, and you can feel the heat almost instantly.

          It isn’t long after that that you feel the first burn as he presses the heated metal to the back of your shoulder. The feeling is only brief, so you manage to keep quiet, but he does it again, next to the first spot.

          He continues, going back to the fire occasionally to re-heat the metal.

          “There! Doesn’t that feel better?” He laughs, and you hear him walk away again.

          Finally, he comes around in front of you and you can see what the offending object is – a can punch. He presses the sharp end on one of your legs, away from the stitches and lays it down flat. It burns, and the end is poking into you, but, as before, you grit your teeth and this time manage to get away with only a groan.

          Then he adjusts the angle of it, and the point digs into your skin and finally after an agonizingly slow few seconds breaks the skin. You let out a squeal, both because the pain is different than the burning you’d gotten sort of used to, and because it is _very blunt_.

          You open your eyes – you hadn’t realized they were closed – only to see his arm raised above his head and a gleeful look on his face.

          He stabs it into your leg as deep as it’ll go, and now you aren’t _you_ anymore. You can’t feel your arms or legs; you can’t tell where you start or where you end.

          All you can feel are the bright spots of pain floating in an empty, uncaring void. You can’t see; can’t hear. Can’t think. It’s just the pain. You don’t exist anymore, as far as you’re aware. For a little while you try to wonder if your dead with the last drop of reasoning you have, but even those thoughts are quickly devoured by the emptiness. You’re just a big mass of physical _feeling_.

          You honestly can’t even tell if he’s adding to it or if each spot of pain has always been there. Always _will_. Doesn’t matter. You only know what you’re feeling _right now_ and – ohhh, _ohh no_.

          Painfully, you’re brought back into your body, you can feel your arms and legs again, you know where you are, what’s happening – if only barely. You realize he did continue to use the point to score cuts along you, on your arms and stomach, but only shallowly.

          It doesn’t matter though, you know what you’ve done. The pressure behind your ears is gone, and you can hear the silence clearly. The silence that wasn’t there just a moment ago. Getting lost in the sensations – you were no longer able to keep your reactions in check.

          His expression tells all. He definitely heard you. _You had moaned_. You didn’t need him knowing that any of this was doing anything to you other than what he already wanted out of it. And you really don’t want to know what he’ll do with this new knowledge.

          But, of course, it is already too late, you already made the sound, and he already heard it. Now all you can do is sit and wait.

          He’s stopped dead in his tracks. “…What is _this_?”

          He leans in and grabs your chin. You want to tear away, but the logical side of your brain has kicked back on, at least for now, and you’re not exactly in a dying sort of mood, so you hold still. He moves his hand back and squeezes the joint of your jaw, forcing you to open your mouth. He shoves the can punch in, point facing down. “How’s this, then, hmm?” He shoves his fingers into your mouth, all the way, until his knuckles are pinching your lips against your teeth. You have to keep swallowing to keep yourself from gagging on his fingers, but he takes it as a sign that you’re enjoying it.

          He adds another finger into your mouth and wiggles them around, laughing before removing them, but not the grip on your jaw, and _definitely_ not the can punch. He presses it down harder and drags it out, cutting your tongue, but only barely. He tosses the thing to the side, and your tongue doesn’t even bleed after a second, and as soon as he’s removed his hand from your jaw, you swallow the blood, keeping your eyes on him nervously.

          He presses his fingers on some of the fresh cut, smearing your blood for himself, but also trying to see if he can get you to moan again. You don’t _think_ you do, but you can feel yourself slipping back into that place where you’re just your ability to feel, so you aren’t sure.

          When you don’t moan again, he continues anyway, palming the front of your underwear. “ _Interessant_ ,” he breathes. The only thing you can do is watch his hand.

          You’re _sure_ you aren’t breathing the way you ought to be. You can’t really recall what that is, but you’re practically panting at this point.

          His hands come close to you. You follow them with your eyes, wide open. He reaches around and unties you.

          You don’t understand the significance of this, but you’re glad. You were really starting to get frustrated not being able to _use them_.

          He pushes you down so that your back is now flat on the ground. The motion hurts a little, but all it really does is add to what you’ve already got going on.

          One of his hands squeezes your thigh, irritating the cuts from yesterday. Everything blurs, and you can feel the sound coming out of you, but you can’t hear it.

          What you _do_ hear, however, is him. _Growling_ into your ear. You can’t _see_ Him anymore, but you can feel the heat of his breath right next to you….

          You can’t describe the feeling of him biting down, it’s jolted you firmly back there – all you are is the pain. It shoots through you, and you almost yell, or maybe you do, you aren’t sure, and you grab his shirt as tightly as you can, needing something, _anything_ to anchor you back to reality but –

          That’s what does it, and you snap back as he starts to move away, but you’re already moving, faster than you can think about what you’re going to do, how you’re going to do it. You’re already there, pressed against him, and he must not think anything of it, how _could_ he, _why_ would _he_ , because he stops moving away, but his expression doesn’t change until moments later, and that was _his_ mistake –

          You bite down, as hard as you can. Maybe _his_ first mistake was not having figured _you_ out. You know exactly where to strike – he isn’t going to be your first after all, _could you imagine_ – and you throw your head back with all your might. The blood that filled your mouth and the warm meat between your teeth tells you you did well, and you sort of want more. Sort of wish you had _time,_ time to relish this, finish him off proper, _enjoy_ him, like he got to enjoy you –

          But you know better. Your breathing has steadied considerably. You swallow the blood that’s already in your mouth, but you’re already moving away, and you don’t try to catch more.

          You made a mistake, too, though. You don’t realize it until you happen to glance back up in your retreat. And you see his face. Angry. You haven’t seen him angry yet this whole time. You’re pretty sure he’s done for, but you’re also pretty sure he has another few minutes left. _More_ than enough time for you to be done for, too.

          Now, for the first time, you actually _are_ afraid of him. You realize you had frozen, seeing his face, and you skitter backward, or, at least, you try. He is already too close, and he’s _so much bigger_ than you. _Stronger_. He uses just one arm to keep you in place against him while he uses the other to reach for his knife.

          “ _Scheißkerl_ ,” he grunts out through the blood that’s already spilling out of his mouth and that he is _undoubtedly_ choking on.

          He’s not getting any more enjoyment out of this, you’re pretty sure. You can feel satisfied in that, at least.

          You try desperately to get more of him between your teeth, claw at him, something, _anything_ to give him pause, but to no avail, it doesn’t even seem like he notices you’re there other than the hollow stare he’s boring into you with.

          Your eyes flicker down and you see that he has a hold of the knife and you look back up and you wish you hadn’t, he’s still not smiling, and you take a shuddering breath and screw your eyes closed tight. You know what’s coming before it’s hit, but that doesn’t stop a gasp from coming out of you at the pain. And after – you’re not sure but your throat hurts and you’re not tasting his now cold blood in your mouth anymore, it’s yours –

          And your back hurts and your lung feels like it’s on fire and you can’t breathe and everything feels hot, but then everything feels cold and you know what’s coming before you can’t feel you’re hands and feet anymore but you can’t feel them now and it’s all going to go downhill from here, you know, and suddenly –

          You haven’t been fighting him back in a while you realize but he hasn’t been adding new holes like he _was_ in a while either you realize and you’re pretty sure that at this point neither of you can move any more.

          _‘What a romantic way to die, a couple murderers, murdering each other,’_ you think,

          and then you don’t, anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations: 
> 
> schatzchen : sweetie  
> freundchen : ok so freund means friend and 'chen' is a diminutive so like, chum, buddy, pal, w/e  
> scheißkerl : bastard/son of a bitch/ motherfucker, take your pick
> 
> i did not know that the thing that is called a can punch, is called a can punch, i thought, it was just a bottle opener?? but nope, i googled it to make sure that people would be imagining the tool i indented and realized i was Wrong.
> 
> also : i only had to google exactly two things mentioned in this fic (other than the fckin can punch), the rest i already knew from personal experience/ other reasons. the two things i had to look up i was right on already, but try to guess which things they were ! a fun game, for the whole family!
> 
> my tumblrs are teethandclawsxx.tumblr.com (gore) and faerie-wolf.tumblr.com (personal), hmu!! but please only send messages about this (or other naughty stuff) to teeth bc i try to keep the other one clean!


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